A Study into the Nature of Innocence
by lemondropseverus
Summary: One cold night, Enjolras and Combeferre help a young woman to give birth. In this uncomfortable predicament, the marble lover of liberty learns a bit more about the people he is fighting so hard to free... Chapter 3 now up!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note:

Dear reader,

This is my first attempt at a Les Miserables fanfiction, so please excuse the inaccuracies, maybe the out of character behavior of the two boys. I did my best to keep them in character (especially Enjolras), and I hope that I did succeed. Also, English is not my mother tongue, so if I have made any mistakes, please let me know and I will correct them as soon as possible. This is based on a mixture of the book and musical.

I also hope that you will enjoy this story.

Yours faithfully,

The Author

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately, I am not M. Hugo so the only thing that I own is the plot.

**A Study into the Nature of Innocence**

_15__th__ of December 1830_

Night had descended upon Paris quieting down the usually active cities. Undeterred by the biting cold, characters of the cities' nightlife had begun lurking in the filthy streets of the city, trying desperately to make a living in one way or another. In small alleys, the painted faces of prostitutes were showing often toothless smiles in hope of attracting the eye of one or two customers. Their dirty, flimsy dresses did nothing to either cover their modesty or protect them against the harsh winter wind. Pickpockets and thieves were loitering in the shadows of buildings, quietly stalking the few gents that had braved the streets during the harsh winter night. Men, women and children with no homes lay motionless in the corners of buildings. Maybe they were dead. Maybe they were dying. Nobody bothered to check.

Seemingly unaware of the inconspicuous activities that took place around them, two men were walking down one of the main streets of the Latin Quarter. The first was tall and thin, with handsome chiseled features and a head of blond curls which were raised by the wind to form a make-shift hallo. The little moonlight which engulfed the night seemed to reflect upon his pale skin giving it the strange appearance of marble. Next to him, trying to keep up with his companion's long purposeful and rather stiff walk, stood a slightly shorter fellow. Unlike his friend's other-worldly, striking appearance, the second man had completely unremarkable features. His frame was lean but not quite as graceful as his companion's, his skin was fair but not quite as pale, his hair fell in brown-chocolate waves which were ruffled by the wind giving him quite a wild appearance. His eyes were obscured by a pair of round spectacles.

The two men strode down the street in comfortable silence, each of them lost in his own thoughts. When in each other's company, some people feel the need to talk about anything and everything. That did not seem to be the case in this instance for the two seemed quite content to be undisturbed by idle chatting. When a sharp scream pierced the relative silence around them and the two men stopped for a second. They did not talk, instead directing a glance towards each other. They seemed to be two of those fortunate souls who had such a deep bond that they could understand each other at a glance. With a slight nod from the taller man, the two quickened their pace to find the source of the scream.

* * *

Their search took them in a back alley where, in the darkness, they could faintly see a moving shape. The brown-haired man approached the figure only to see a young woman sprawled upon the ground, her hands fisting what seemed like a very old, moth eaten shawl. Life had not been kind to this girl. Her blondish hair was lank and dirty, her skin was a mess of red ravaged by rashes and frostbite, her entire frame was very thin, a clear sign of malnourishment. As he quickly assessed the situation, the man understood why she had screaming. The girl was with child and it appeared that the child had decided to enter this despairing world.

"Monsieur, please help me! Please! Please!" the girl croaked, tears and pain evident in her rough voice.

"What is your name, Mademoiselle?" the man asked gently, taking off his coat and putting it over the shoulders of the miserable creature. She looked at him in awe for a second and did not reply. It seemed strange to her that this kind man would not only offer his coat but also refer to her with such a deferential title.

"Anne…" she answered softly after making sure that the kind gentleman was indeed talking to her.

"Well, mademoiselle Anne, is there somewhere we can take you where they can help you with your… predicament?"

"Nah… I was one of Madame's Beaumarchais' girls but she turned me out a couple of months ago after I've started showing…" she answered simply and the man was slightly taken aback at how matter-of-factly this creature treated her misfortune. Then it dawned on him that for her, a prostitute, it was a fact of life. It wasn't so unusual for those creatures of the night to be abandoned to fate after they had served their purpose and had fallen with child.

"I see…" he replied, not knowing what else to say and turned back to his companion.

His friend, as straight-laced as ever, was leaning against one of the walls of the buildings surrounding the alley. His blue eyes were fixed upon a spot in the adjoining street and he seemed unaware of what had trespassed between his companion and the girl. He looked as if he was lost in a make-shift world of his own, completely unaware of the omniscient miserable reality of the world that surrounded him. The man sighted and touched his blond companion's shoulder to attract his attention.

"Enjolras, it appears she is with child and that labor has begun" the man said towards his companion, his voice slightly more nervous than before. His friend merely nodded in understanding. "We need to take her somewhere warm…" he added, hoping that the urgency in his voice would clue Enjolras in how time-sensitive and important the task was.

"Then we should take her to a hospital" Enjolras declared calmly.

"My friend, I am afraid that the first hospital is too far away and it would be no guarantee that they have a place for her there…" he answered despondently, his shoulders sagging slightly.

"Can you help her deliver, Combeferre?" he inquired in an unperturbed tone, as if he was a lawyer trying to get all the facts of a case.

"I…we had some classes … but….I'm not… I've never… " the one called Combeferre stammered suddenly faced with the reality of the momentous task he was asked to undertake.

"Etienne, can you help her deliver?" Enjolras reiterated calmly, placing a hand upon his friends' shoulder.

"Yes… I think I can. It is certainly more suitable than leaving her here." It seemed that the use of his given name and his friend's calm had given the man confidence and his voice became much steadier.

"Good! Then it is decided. My apartment is closer than yours so we shall take her there and you will help her through this" he replied as if it was the most natural thing in the world and walked towards the shriveling creature in the corner.

Combeferre's mind, twisting and turning like a small motor, could find at least fifty objections to that seemingly benign plan. What would Enjolras' neighbors say when they heard the screams of childbirth coming from his apartment? What would it do to his friends' reputation? And what about himself? Did he really have the skills to help the young woman? With a shake of his head, he dismissed his objections. Frankly, it was the best that they could do for her and not taking this course of action would mean condemning the poor girl and her child to death in the cold Parisian night.

Anne looked up from where she was sitting and could see that the other gentleman was coming to her. When the kind man had spoken to her, she didn't really take a good look at his friend. But now that he was walking towards her she was struck by his appearance. He was handsome. He was more than handsome. He looked like one of God's angels coming down upon the earth to perform his divine justice. In her simple mind, she suddenly felt very dirty, very unworthy to be in this man's presence.

"Mademoiselle, my friend and I are going to take you to my apartment and help you through this ordeal. Do you consent?" Enjolras asked looking at the girl and taking in her condition. He suddenly felt repulsed. Not by the girl herself, but by the society that allowed such things to happen.

Anne didn't reply immediately for she could hardly find her words. The angel had spoken. The angel had spoken to her. Had she not been able to still feel the biting cold through the tears in her dress, she would have believed herself to be dead. Her mind seemed to be unable to register what the man had asked of her. After all, why would such a gentleman even bother to look at a street rat? Knowing instinctively that he expected an answer, she nodded, not exactly knowing or understanding what she was agreeing to. Seeing her nod, the man bent over and scooped her into his arms, and she instinctively lowered her head to his shoulder. The wretched creature now secured into his arms, Enjolras turned towards Combeferre and motioned him to continue their short walk towards his apartment.

* * *

Enjolras' apartment was not the grand affair that one would expect from the only son of a rich bourgeois family. On the contrary. It was a small, clean dwelling which consisted of a living room, a bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a wash-room, only furnished with the bare necessities and an inordinate amount of books. When the strange trio entered a fire was already lit, probably curtsy of Enjolras' kind landlady, and the sparse apartment was drenched in both warmth and an inviting light. The owner of the place was quick to place his already whimpering charge in his own bed and turned to face his friend with an inquisitive look.

"What do you need?" he asked Combeferre, who, in all truthfulness looked slightly lost.

"Um… warm water… and some linen… and a pair of scissors, or something to cut the umbilical cord with… and some thread… " the medical student answered, desperately trying to remember whether it was anything else that he might require. Now that the girl was in Enjolras' house their ordeal seemed not only far more real, but also far more insane. He had absolutely no practical experience with child birth. Children were not supposed to be delivered by young men in their early twenties. Children were not supposed to be delivered by men. Unless they were doctors, that is. At that particular moment, Combeferre was acutely aware of what a long way he still had to go until he received the esteemed title of "doctor". "Maybe we should send for a midwife, Julien…" he whispered in a slightly trembling voice, his brown eyes seeking his friend's blue ones.

"Do you know where to find one?" Julien Enjolras asked in a slightly dry tone.

"We could try at the Necker… but at this late hour and with this weather… No... I don't" he shook his head.

"Etienne, women have been doing this for centuries…I am certain we can manage" Enjolras tried, as best as he could, to offer reassurance. Truth be told, he was as lost as his friend was. The education of a gentleman was more than lacking in the intricacies of the birthing process. It was just something that happened. Of course, he had a vague idea of how it anatomically happened but nothing more than that. It wasn't something that was spoken freely about and it wasn't something that had ever interested him, to be frank. With a slightly strained smile, he made his way to heat some water leaving Combeferre and their charge alone in the room.

"Right… Mademoiselle Anne, if you don't mind, I need to check how soon the child will be coming…" he asked with a slight stutter, his cheeks reddening considerably.

Once again, the wretched girl nodded without being aware of what she was consenting to. All she knew was that a couple of minutes beforehand she had been in the streets, cold biting at her skin, pain engulfing every inch of her body and no hope or wish to deliver the miserable creature that demanded to be released into the world. Now she was in a warm, clean place, on a bed softer than the one she had had at Madame Beaumarchais with gentlemen that seemed to be kind. The poor girl's mind was a simple one. She had no notion of modesty and she had no notion of what was proper or not. All that she knew was that she had been cold and now she was not. She also knew that the two gentlemen were responsible with her sudden increase in comfort and, like the obedient human being that she was, she was willing to agree to whatever they demanded of her.

* * *

Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks when, after heating the water the medical student had required, he saw said medical student lifting the girl's poor excuse of a dress and taking a look at her private regions. He immediately felt his face heat up with embarrassment for both his friend and the woman in his bed. Of course, he rationally knew that Combeferre needed to be in the proximity of that particular part of female anatomy in order to do his job, but he, chaste soul that he was, could not help but avert his eyes from the entire process.

"I brought the water…" he coughed softly to attract Combeferre's attention and his friend suddenly emerged from what he was doing, looking very much like a school child scolded by his headmaster.

"Right… thank you, Enjolras… Mademoiselle Anne, it seems you are quite close to the delivery. How is the pain? I mean… how often do you feel pain? A few minutes...or.. seconds? " he tried to sound as professional as he could, but didn't really manage as his voice still had quite a panicked quality to it.

"A few minutes, Monsieur…" she answered in a slightly strained voice. She didn't want to upset the two gentlemen by screaming, so instead she grabbed a fistful of the crisp white linen on the bed.

Hearing the woman speak for the first time since their encounter, Enjolras turned his attention towards her and, for what it seemed like the first time that night, truly looked at her. She was a small scrawny thing with a headful of limp, dirty, blond hair. Her eyes were large and brown. Her skin was blemished with red patches either from the cold or from whatever diseases she might have acquired from living on the streets or from her profession. Her teeth were surprisingly intact, although crooked and yellow. She also looked very, very young. How did she come to this state?

She was not unlike hundreds of people he passed on the streets daily. She was one of the abased, one of those he fought to liberate from their terrible existence by creating the French republic. Yet, as strange as it might sound, while he fought for them, Enjolras realized he had very little opportunity to interact with this demeaned group of people. Of course, there was the occasional gamin that he used for information and, of course, he gave speeches to these people, urging them to rebel. But he had never really taken the time to actually talk to them.

From their café, the Amis talked countless of hours about the conditions these people lived in. They debated, they offered opinions, and they talked about a world of equality that would lift the wretched from their miserable existence. But, he, their leader, often placed on a pedestal by his friends who went as far as to equate him to a god, had never actually bothered to talk to one of the abased. Enjolras suddenly felt his cheeks heat up again and he was quite certain that his shame had nothing to do with the fact that Combeferre was once again examining the girl's private parts.

"Mademoiselle, if you don't mind me asking, how old are you?" Enjolras asked while dragging the only chair in the room next to the unfortunates' bed and sitting gracefully on it.

"Thirteen… or maybe fourteen…I don't really know… When I first went to her, Madame used to say to the gents coming that I was a delightful eleven year old… and that's been about three years ago…" she answered simply, looking at the blond man with a slightly bewildered expression. Why would such a gentleman wish to know her age of all things?

For his part, Enjolras could feel his heart, that organ most of his friends could swear it was made of marble, almost physically stop. How could a child of eleven years of age be forced to sell her body? What kind of demented individual would agree to have any sort of relations with a child? And what kind of society were they truly living in if it allowed such situations to occur? Of course, he had known that the life of those sad creatures at the lower levels of society was terrible. But at that very moment, when he had a shriveling child in his bed, ironically giving birth to a child of her own, he understood that there was precious little that he knew about what "terrible" truly meant. His blue, unforgiving eyes blazed with anger and with a renewed fire to bring into being the egalitarian society of the republic.

"Monsieur, the pain is now coming more quickly… " the rough, meek voice of the girl addressed his friend who was busing himself with some trivialities next to the bed.

"Do you feel the urge to… um… push?" Combeferre asked a bit unsure of how to phrase it, to neither offend the girl or his friend's sensibilities.

"Not yet… but it hurts really bad…" she answered in a strained voice, her thin hands trying to once again grab the thin linen on the bed and finding that it did little to distract her from the pain. Not offering any word by way of explanation, Enjolras calmly took one of the girl's blemished hands in his own perfectly white one and allowed her to squeeze it as hard as she was capable of.

* * *

Etienne Combeferre was stunned. He had known from the first moment he had heard his friend talk to the girl that something was subtly changing within his best friend. Coming from the same city in the South, the two men had forged a close bond when they had first met in Paris. He had come understand Enjolras' moods and feelings at a glance, for although their other friends could swear that he only had two predispositions: indifferent and passionate about the revolution, Combeferre knew better. He could tell when Julien was amused by the slight flicker in his eyes, he could tell when he was disappointed by the way in which a shadow seemed to cross his features for less than a second, he could tell when he was in particularly conflicting mood, by the way in which his forehead seemed to crease a little. He knew his friend well and he knew that something was happening within his soul. Now, that Julien, who often shied away from physical contact, offered comfort to the girl, he truly comprehended what was happening within his friends' mind.

Unlike himself, who, as it was expected of a medical student, came into contact with people from all walks of life during his internships in various Parisian hospitals, Enjolras was very sheltered in that respect. Being by nature a guarded individual, he did not enjoy social situations of any kind. His contact with the world outside the university and the café was limited to the public speeches he held. But now, that he had a person from the lower class within his house, it seemed that his friend finally understood that the abased were not simply a mass of people who needed someone to fight for them. They were individuals, with stories or their own and lives which were fundamentally different from what any of them had ever known.

"Monsieur, I think the baby wants to come out… " Combeferre's contemplations were suddenly stopped dead in their tracks by the voice of the girl, who was now harshly squeezing at his friends' hand turning the pale skin red.

"Right…" he turned towards the girl and once again spread her legs apart, now immune to the shame such an action would normally make him feel. "Whenever you feel the pain coming, please push as hard as you can…"

* * *

Neither man could accurately describe what happened in the following several minutes. Everything seemed to be a dazzling flurry of activity, while the girl, forgoing her kind resolution of not screaming for fear of upsetting the two men, yelled at the top of her lungs. Combeferre was mainly focused on getting the child out, who, despite the malnourished state of the mother, seemed by some sort divine miracle to be fully formed and of appropriate size. He tried to remain as calm as possible even when blood started to gush out of the poor woman as she desperately tried to rid herself of the child that was growing in her womb. For his part, Enjolras watched the entire process with a certain degree of curiosity, being quite unnerved by the screams the girl, Anne, was producing. When he saw blood, he was at first dismissive. Back in July he had fought at the barricades and had seen enough violence to make him accustomed to it. Yet, when he saw the amount of blood that was coming out of her he could not help but feel slightly unnerved. Even to his utterly untrained eye, such a high amount of blood was not normal.

When Anne slightly arched her back and gave a final, forceful push accompanied by an equal mighty scream, Enjolras instinctively gripped her hand tighter. For a moment the room was eerily silent and time seemed to have stopped. Wild-eyed and hands trembling slightly, Combeferre emerged from his place at the foot of the bed, with a small infant in his arms, still attached to his mother by the umbilical cord. He slapped the infant on the back and the room was once again drenched in screams, now the screams of a child. Stunned, Enjolras turned to face the woman who had given birth to the child only to find that the hand which had so forcefully gripped his, was limp. For the second time that night, his heart seemed to stop.

"Etienne… I think something is wrong…" Enjolras said in a slightly trembling voice. The fact that his friend had not only used his given name but also that his normally controlled voice was shaking, made the medical student immediately turn his attention from the child he was holding to his friend. With expert movements, he cut the connection between mother and child and tied it as best as he could with the thread before covering it with a piece of linen which seemed to be torn from one of Enjolras' own shirts.

"Julien…" He gently motioned for his friend to take the wailing child so that he could attend to the mother.

* * *

Enjolras was prepared for many things. He was prepared to lead a revolution. He was prepared to die for Patria. He was even prepared to lead his whole life as a pro-bono lawyer. He was utterly unprepared to hold a child. When Combeferre unceremoniously gave him the infant to hold, for the first time in many months, he felt fear grip at his soul. Not for himself, obviously, but for the wailing child who was now in his arms. That poor child who at that very moment was so innocent, so unaware of what was happening around him and of what kind of world he had been born into. Or maybe he was aware. Maybe his screams were a form of protest at being born into such a wretched place. Maybe he instinctively knew that his life would be one of misery and trials beyond belief. Feeling a rush of protectiveness, which was normally only directed towards his friends, Enjolras wanted to make the child stop crying. He wanted to maintain his innocence a little bit longer. Unconsciously, he started to rock the babe, his blue, piercing gaze fixed on the little scrunched face. Soon enough, the crying stopped, the baby was lulled to sleep, and the room once again became early quiet. He turned his eyes towards his friend who was now sitting on the chair he had vacated, his head in his palms.

"Etienne?!" he enquired softly as to not wake the babe in his arms but received no reply. Combeferre turned his head and, beyond the round spectacles, he could see that the man's eyes were brimming with tears. He suddenly understood.

Unconsciously, Enjolras tightened his grip around the little one in his arms, and for a moment was irrationally grateful that the child was not awake to see his mother dead, already turning an unpleasant shade of blue, and the large stain of blood which was so gruesomely contrasting with the crisp white linens. He shifted his eyes from the grotesque picture of death to the new life he was carrying. He took in the little hands and fingers, the small feet and toes, the round head and soft cheeks. How could such a perfect little being be born out of such misery? Feeling the inexplicable urge to protect the child from being tainted by the picture of death, he wordlessly carried him into the other room.

* * *

As he sat on one of two large armchairs in his living room, Enjolras felt immensely grateful that his landlady had had the foresight to lit up the fire in both rooms, not only in his bedroom. It would not do for the infant to be cold. To make certain that it did not happen, he took one of the small blankets that he sometimes used during winter while studying at his desk and inexpertly wrapped it around the child. The baby opened his murky blue eyes, but did not wail. Instead he seemed to be quite content to be warm and held against the man's chest. Enjolras looked into the eyes of the baby and he could feel his heart constrict painfully. If the child's future was bleak when his mother was alive, now, not having anyone in the world to care for him, it was absolutely terrible. It was certain death.

"He is sleeping" Enjolras said softly after a couple of minutes, hearing his friend come in.

"He probably likes listening to your heartbeat…" Combeferre answered tiredly, taking the one other armchair in the room while watching his friend closely.

In the flickering light of the fire, Enjolras' features seemed to have lost some of the marble-like quality about them. Instead they seemed softer, somewhat more human. His head was bent down, his blond curls falling on his forehead, his blue eyes looking at the child he was carrying. His eyes, often so very intense and passionate, seemed to carry a different light. They seemed a bit gentler as if he didn't dare to direct his passion towards the innocent soul he was holding. For a moment, Combeferre drank in this picture, trying to etch its details into his memory forever. He realized, not without a certain amount of dread, that considering their activities, this particular instance would probably the one and only moment he would see his friend hold an infant. Such a pity, for it seemed to suit him.

"We should at least name him…" Combeferre said softly and his friend nodded, without turning his attention from the child.

"Francois" Enjolras whispered, his white hand gently caressing the face of the child.

"Frenchman?" Combeferre tacitly approved, considering Enjolras' devotion to his country that would be the most telling name he could give to a baby boy.

"Free man" Enjolras amended softly, his hand still caressing the baby's head, and Combeferre had to turn his eyes from the scene for he felt them brim with tears yet again.

* * *

**A/N**: So…what do you think? At this moment this is technically a one-shot, but I do have a couple of ideas about how to continue it… So, would anyone be interested to read more?

Please leave your comments and suggestions through your reviews. I would love to know what you think of this.

_Note: Francois means both "Frenchman" and "free man" _


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note:**

**Dear reader,**

**First of all thank you for your support for this story. Because of the number of reviews and alerts this initial one-shot has received, I decided to continue it. I hope you will enjoy this second (slightly macabre) chapter, which delves a little bit further into Combeferre's thoughts (I do hope he is in character!) **

**Once again thank you for your support!**

**Yours faithfully, **

**The Author**

* * *

_16__th__ of December 1830_

Nothing in life is ever certain. Nothing except that no matter how long the journey takes, it ends in death. Nothing in life is ever just. For some, the journey might be pleasant. For others it might be miserable. Justice can only be found in the unyielding eternal sleep, the mound of dirt that covers the body, the stillness of the corpse. Death is the ultimate form of democracy. Someone as partial to philosophical platitudes as Combeferre could not help but notice the aforementioned in light of what had just trespassed. Especially while he watched his best friend fall into a restless sleep, the child still firmly in place on his chest.

Testament to the ambiguous nature of life, nothing that had happened during the previous day would have hinted at the predicament they were in that very moment. Nothing. It had been a perfectly ordinary day. He had gone to classes together with Jolly. He had had lunch with Enjolras and Courfeyrac. They had met Les Amis for a round of discussions later during the evening. At that point in time, the only thing which had been plaguing his mind had been where to find a trusted printer to print the new pamphlets Enjolras had requested.

Then they met the girl and his comparatively simple life was turned upside down by a flurry of activities which resulted in a corpse and an infant whose life depended on the decisions the two young men would make.

For a moment, Combeferre fought the urge to turn his eyes form the pair sleeping on the armchair. He could honestly say that he had never seen Enjolras as emotionally invested in another human being as he had been in the past few hours. Even now, in sleep, as he held little Francois in his arms his features held a strange sort of gentleness. It was as if some instinctual need to protect the little infant had been awakened within the younger man. He guessed it to be some sort of animalistic tendency to ensure the survival of the species. Combeferre, who had always secretly thought that Enjolras' detachment towards living things was slightly detrimental to his friend's wellbeing, could not say that he disproved.

That being said, the appearance of the child in their lives did bring about a multitude of problems. For starters, there was the matter of what to do with the child. His first thought was that they should leave the child to a foundling house. Yet, it was common knowledge that the circumstances of hospices in Paris, or in any part of France for that matter, were not good. In fact, leaving an infant in the care of such an establishment was tantamount to condemning him to death. Hospices were cold, dirty and generally unpleasant places where half the infants met with an untimely death before their first year of life was over, mostly because of unsanitary conditions and starvation. Wet nurses were in short supply in such a place and while they were supposed to care only for one child, they often ended up trying to feed four to five new-borns. This meant that some of the infants did not have access to breast milk and as such, succumbed to starvation. Even if the child did manage to get nourishment, foundling houses were ridden with infectious diseases like syphilis and small pox which considerably decreased the infant's chance at survival.

If he was right about Enjolras' newly found tentative attachment to Francois, he suspected his younger friend would be reluctant to leave the child in such a dangerous environment. Not that he, himself would be too thrilled about it either. He was more than unwilling to condemn an innocent human being to a life which was perhaps more miserable than the child's mother's had been.

That particular line of thought suddenly reminded Combeferre that he had a more pressing matter to attend to. After all, he could not take decisions regarding Francois' future on his own. Enjolras would have to get involved, and maybe his friend, always so logical, could find a better solution than he could.

He rose from his own armchair and found, with some surprise, that his legs were numb. For how long had he been sitting there? Minutes? Hours? He turned towards the window and he could spy the first rays of dawn showing themselves on the dark sky. With a tired sigh, he took one last look at the two figures sleeping on the armchair and could not help but offer a genuine, albeit worn-out, smile.

Enjolras seemed to have finally fallen into deep sleep. His sharp features, always slightly tense, were much more relaxed, the creases of his wide forehead almost invisible now. His blond hair fell in curls around his face and his mouth was parted slightly in sleep. On the man's rather thin chest, little Francois was contentedly propped by his protector's arms, the dark blanket falling almost entirely from his tiny form. One of his small hands was clutching at his friend's jacket while the other rested comfortably under Enjolras' chin. Combeferre took the dark blanket and covered both of them as gently as he could so as not to disturb their sleep. Then he made his way towards the other room in the apartment and his mood sobered instantly.

* * *

Ever since he had been five years old, Etienne Combeferre had wanted to be a doctor. It was a strange choice of career in one so young, especially when most of his playmates wished to be pirates, princes or fairy-tale heroes. It was especially odd because doctors of the time mostly lead long lives plagued with the frustration of only being able to offer moderate relief to their patients. Of course, young Etienne could not have known that. In his mind he associated the image of a doctor with the only person he completely respected to the point of worship: his father. It was because of his father, his own personal fairy-tale hero, that he had unequivocally decided to pursue this particular path. Not once, not even when the object of his motivation had died in a pointless carriage accident, had Combeferre doubted his career choice. That is, until now.

As he stood vigil in the room that his friend had so graciously offered to the young woman, Combeferre found that he could not tear his eyes away from the prone figure on the bed. It was such a different picture from the one he had witnessed in the other room that the young student could not help but feel a pang of pain course through every fibre of his being. The apartment seemed much too abruptly split in two: one part the world of the living, the other the realm of the dead.

The girl hadn't been particularly beautiful in life and she certainly wasn't making an attractive corpse. Her pale face was already tinged with blue, her cheeks were more sunken in death than in life, and her jaw was set, a trademark sign that rigor mortis was taking its natural course. The vivid red of the blood on the sheets had dulled to an unappealing brown colour and was no longer contrasting with the woman's skin. Instead, it seemed to be blending with it.

The young doctor took one of the few remaining clean cloths and started the painstaking process of cleaning the girl as best as he could.

In a twisted sort of way, Combeferre found the process of scrubbing dirt and dried blood of the girl's already rigid legs soothing. Tackling particularly difficult stains offered him a momentary distraction from the quandaries that had plagued his mind for hours. He could not quite understand why the girl's death was affecting him. After all, he had seen death before, both at the barricades of July and during his various internships in Parisian hospitals. Furthermore, what had happened the night before was in no way extraordinary. Women died in childbirth, it was a fact of life. Maybe it was the fact that this had truly been the only moment in his life when a defenceless creature had placed her life in his hands. Before, when dealing with wounds and patients, he had always had someone looking behind his shoulder, making certain he did not make mistakes. This particular time he had been alone. That simple minded girl who was now reduced to a rigid, cold, mass of flesh, had trusted him implicitly with the only thing she had to offer: her life. To a certain extent, although he knew there had been nothing more that he could have done, Combeferre felt like he had somewhat betrayed that trust.

Finished with the girl's legs, he started cleaning her dark blond hair, wondering if she had ever cleaned it herself.

It wasn't the fact that the girl had died which made Combeferre doubt his abilities as a future doctor, but the feeling of remorse the situation roused within his chest. Feeling remorse, guilt even, went against everything he had been taught. Time and time again, his professors and supervisors had told him that a doctor should not get in any way attached to a patient. Patients were nothing more than faceless individuals whose lives and deaths were, on an emotional level, absolutely inconsequential. Combeferre reckoned that in certain respects, such a doctrine had some merit. Medicine was a science where the balance of failure and success was severely skewed towards failure. Doctors experienced the death of a patient more often than they experienced his complete recovery. It would not do to mourn every single patient. It would not do to feel guilty and second guess oneself.

Thus, if his heart was laden with an inappropriate amount of guilt because of the death of one woman in childbirth, Combeferre could not help but wonder if he was truly suited for his profession. That being said, Combeferre was very aware that it mattered little whether he was suited to be a doctor or not. His life, their lives, were dangerous ones. Of course, none of his friends, not even their marble leader, dared to admit it outright. In all truthfulness, the chance that he would actually get to fully practice his chosen profession was rather small, if the political situation continued as it was.

Blood from the piece of cloth and dirt form the girl's hair turned the water in the basin into an unappealing greyish mixture. Combeferre decided to change the water before proceeding further. He went to Enjolras' washroom where he found another bucket of clean water. He emptied the basin and, for a second, was inclined to heat the ice-cold water in the bucket before using it to clean the girl. Then he realized that it would not matter. She would not be able to feel it anyway.

Back in July, they had fought for a republic but they had gotten a new king. While he liked to think the best of people, Louis Philippe seemed hardly more competent than his predecessor and this would undoubtedly stir displeasure within both the population and Les Amis de L'ABC. Furthermore, Enjolras was not as conciliatory as Combeferre himself and would accept no compromise. For his friend, it did not matter if the ruler was called Bonaparte, Charles or Louis Philippe. As long as France was not a republic, the system needed to be overturned. While he did not share his friend's so very zealous behavior, Combeferre knew that he would fight for the French Republic, not only because of a deep sense of loyalty towards Enjolras but also because of his own values which were geared towards an egalitarian system. As such, the issue was not whether they would fight or not. It was _when_ they would fight. Potential death or life imprisonment considerably lowered one's chances to fully be a doctor.

Combeferre would have continued to ponder the realities of his life had he not noticed that he was already finished with what he had been doing with his hands. He had managed to clean the girl to the best of his abilities. Unfortunately, he had been unable to do much about the wretched, greyish dress she was wearing and the blood with which it was imbibed. He resolved he would go buy a new dress before they decided what to do with the body. Of course, it was wasteful but he did feel that, after all the misery she had suffered in life, the girl deserved the courtesy to be buried wearing something decent.

Outside, the feeble winter sun was shining and Combeferre wondered for a second what change would this new day bring in their lives. Yet, before he could get lost in another round of platitudes, the young doctor heard the sound of loud knocking at the apartment door, muffled voices and the sharp scream of a baby. It seemed he would find out what the new day brought sooner than expected.

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**A/N:** I know that this chapter was a bit of a filler, but I still hope you have enjoyed it. Please **review** and let me know what you think.

It not only motivates me to write the 3rd chapter faster, but also Les Miserables is a new territory for me and I would love to know your opinion.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note:**

**Dear reader,**

**Sorry for taking so long to update this story. My exam period is fortunately now over, so I can focus more on pleasurable pursuits (hence this chapter)**

**I want to thank all those that have read and reviewed this story. I am really glad that you like it and really humbled that you take the time to send me a few kind words.**

**I hope you will enjoy this chapter, which is far more light-hearted than the previous one.**

**Once again thank you for your support!**

**Yours faithfully,**

**The Author**

* * *

_16th of December 1830_

Despite often being misjudged as being flippant, Courfeyrac was a rather observant man. While he could not boast Combeferre's intelligence or Enjolras' gift for public speaking, Courfeyrac did have a gift which was uniquely his. He knew a multitude of things about his friends which might seem irrelevant at first but which had won him the title of being the "centre of Les Amis de L'ABC". For example, he knew which wine Grantaire had a partiality for, which considering that the other man drank everything and anything was no easy feat. He knew which seemed to be Jehan's preferred places to seek inspiration. He knew when to treat Marius to dinner when he could not afford to pay, even if the younger man failed to mention it.

In the long list of observations that he had made over the years about his friends, there was one in particular which had Courfeyrac marching towards Enjolras' apartment at the ungodly hour of eight o'clock in the morning. It was fairly simple, really: Enjolras was more likely to agree to whatever Courfeyrac was demanding if he asked him early in the morning. While not the type of person who took hours to be fully awake, Courfeyrac knew that his friend was, by no stretch of the imagination, a morning person. On the contrary. In the morning Enjolras' reaction time and reasoning capabilities were severely reduced. This, in turn, made it less likely for Courfeyrac's requests to be destroyed by his friend's unyielding logic.

In all truthfulness, the "centre of the revolution" would not have taken advantage of Apollo's weakness if the situation had not been so very dire. In fact, the situation was so very terrible that Courfeyrac had resolved to sacrifice precious hours of sleep to have the chance to successfully make his request. Rene de Courfeyrac had been living in Paris for more than five years. There, he had learned two very important things: firstly, discarding the offending particle "de" from his name would be beneficial to his image as a fashionable dandy and secondly, he was thoroughly unsuited for his chosen profession, or better said, chosen university course.

Law school was not exactly Courfeyrac's preferred place to spend either his mornings or his afternoons. Quite frankly, he found the entire experience of being a law student entirely unappealing. That being said, he had neither the application and dedication required of a medical student, nor the technical capabilities to be a polytechnician. As such, he had persisted in his unfortunate pursuit to become a lawyer. That is not to say that his logic by elimination had satisfied his father in his position as the (somewhat) reluctant sponsor of his studies. If he was being honest, even he had to admit that taking six years to finish a degree which normally took three was pushing it. Of course he could justify his lack of results as being due to the more covert, and far more fulfilling, activities he indulged in. After all, how many in his day and age could truly claim that they managed to fully and successfully complete their studies while trying arduously to overturn the monarchy? In fact, he could think only of one… or maybe two. But it would not be fair to give them as examples, for one was decidedly a god and the other a genius. Despite his explanations, justifications and pleas, his father's last letter had made it plainly clear that he was expecting results and he was expecting them fast. Curse bourgeois mercantilist mentality!

It was with this particular problem that the young revolutionary made his way towards the house of the god himself in attempt to convince him to bestow his grace on his ever–faithful worshiper. To put it simply, Courfeyrac needed to successfully coerce Enjolras into allowing him to borrow his notes for the sole course he had deemed to take during the trimester.

* * *

Enjolras opened his eyes, slightly disturbed by the light that had suddenly assaulted them. He blinked rapidly and tried, to the best of the abilities of his sleep-numbed mind, to assess his surroundings. He had apparently fallen asleep in front of the fire, the infant quietly resting on his chest, one of his tiny hands grabbing at the collar of his opened coat. He wondered for a second for how long he had slept and then took note of the insistent knocking on his door. With as much gentleness as he could muster, he maneuvered the baby off him and placed him in the armchair, remarking in the process that Combeferre was nowhere in sight. Mentally wondering where his friend was, he went to attend to the person who seemed to be so very desperate to speak to him.

As soon as he opened the door, Enjolras' first instinct was to promptly close it. He suppressed that urge for the sake of common curtsy. Still, he could not say that he was pleased to see Courfeyrac standing in his doorway that early in the morning.

"Enjolras, mon ami, you seem rather frazzled this fine morning… Is everything alright?" Courfeyrac offered a wolfish grin noticing his friend's less than composed appearance.

Before Enjolras answered, he pondered the question for a second. Was everything alright? He was a twenty-two year old student and revolutionary, having a defenceless infant in his living room, a dead mother in his bedroom, a best friend who was not in his line of sight and absolutely no idea what to do next. By all standards, no, everything was not alright.

"Of course, Courfeyrac" He replied dryly, hoping rather irrationally that his friend would understand the subtle hint that he was not welcomed, and that he could be left to gather his thoughts as to what to do next in peace.

" Well, mon ami, I came to discuss a rather sensitive issue with you …" Courfeyrac replied, not quite understanding why he was being kept in the doorway. He would have probably said more, but the freshly-named Francois, deprived of his protector's arms and suddenly remembering that he was hungry, decided to make his presence known by a loud wail.

Knowing logically that there was no human way to hide the baby from the rather baffled guest, Enjolras stepped aside and politely motioned him to enter the apartment. Courfeyrac followed him into the living area, slightly stunned as to what was happening. There, hoping that the child would calm down as he had done before, Enjolras took the baby in his arms and started to rock him slightly before the wide eyes of the other man.

There were preciously few things that could stun Rene Courfeyrac. In fact, after experiencing the nightlife of Paris to the fullest, he would have said, with certitude, that the number of things that could surprise him was more or less nil. Yet, Enjolras holding an infant was one of those few, rare instances which left Courfeyrac speechless. A million questions and possible situations raced through the young man's mind but he could not cohesively give voice to them. Did Enjolras have a mistress that they did not know of? Impossible! The other man was so devoted to his Patria that no woman could even hope to stir his interest. Was the child the product of a trivial night of pleasure? Unlikely. In fact, Enjolras had never as much glanced in the direction of the fairer sex with anything resembling desire.

"Enjolras, my friend, if you had come for advice from yours truly, you would not be in such a predicament" Courfeyrac settled for what seemed to be as the most plausible explanation in his mind and offered a wolfish grin towards his friend.

Enjolras, child in arms, took a moment to reconcile what Courfeyrac had said with what the situation was. He found it impossible. After all, how could Courfeyrac's advice have in any way prevented the uncomfortable, troublesome, situation he found himself in? Then he realized that his flamboyant friend did not know everything which had trespassed and, of course, jumped to what seemed to be the most logical conclusion. Courfeyrac believed the child to be his.

The young leader of the revolution felt his cheeks redden for a second. Despite being a gifted speaker, he was by no means comfortable with delving into such sensitive subjects. Although he did not mind his more experienced friends discuss the liaisons they had with women in his presence, he never actively participated in such talks.

"I am afraid you labour under the misconception that the child is mine, Courfeyrac" he chose his words carefully as if to stir clear of anything that might give his friend cause to pursue that particularly uncomfortable line of questioning.

"Mon ami, I am hurt! Do you feel the need to hide your transgression from me? You should know better than that…After all, who am I to judge?" Courfeyrac replied with mock-hurt in his voice, offering a playful wink.

"No, Courfeyrac, you are erroneous… The child is not mine. Combeferre and I helped his mother deliver him last night" Enjolras quickly decided that he would rather suffer the indignity of admitting to be present during a childbirth than have his friend continue to believe that he had sired a bastard. It was, by far, the lesser evil of the two.

Courfeyrac stood silent for a second and searched his leaders' blue gaze for a sign of deceit. He found none. Then he promptly started to laugh. Somehow he could not imagine the two of them being able to properly deliver a baby. Enjolras was far too enraptured in the notions of Jacobin virtue to not be ashamed at imposing upon a woman's most private moment and Combeferre, although an excellent medical student, would be far too nervous without supervision. He suspected that what had trespassed between the two the night before must have been a scene worthy of stage of the Opera Comique.

"Where is the unfortunate woman?" Courfeyrac asked, knowing that he had to meet the brave soul who had allowed the two to assist her in her hardship.

"She is dead" Enjolras replied in a sharp, cutting tone, and his friend sobered up immediately. He knew Courfeyrac to be rather flippant most of the times and he generally did not mind it, but he would not allow him to make light of what had happened the previous night.

"I am sorry, I did not know…" the dandy followed properly chastised.

It was when Courfeyrac was prepared to make his lengthy and entirely sincere apology, that Combeferre decided to make his presence within the apartment known. If Enjolras looked somewhat distressed by the events, Combeferre looked worse. He was positively gloomy. Courfeyrac immediately understood that what had happened had taken a greater toll on the young medical student than on their marble leader. He did not know the particulars, but, assessing the situation, he supposed that while Enjolras had concerned himself with the welfare of the child, Combeferre had been left to care for the mother. How and why the woman had died, he did not know but his friend seemed to take it, on a certain level, as a personal failure.

"Combeferre, Enjolras was making me acquainted with the circumstances you find yourselves in. Is there anything I can do to help?" he offered benevolently and received a grateful smile in return.

"We need to find a way to dispose of the body…" Combeferre said tiredly, lifting his spectacles for a second to rub his eyes. "And a dress… but I will deal with that"

Of course, there was another concern the two, now three, men had to deal with. And this particular concern was currently being rocked to sleep by the otherwise emotionless leader of the revolution.

"What about the child?" Courfeyrac, the least emotionally invested, dared to ask the question the two had been indubitably thinking about for several hours.

"We could take him to Saint Vincent-de-Paul…" Combeferre offered in a subdued tone after several moments of absolute silence.

Saint Vincent –de-Paul. An over-crowded place where little Francois' chance for survival was almost equal to that of being left on the streets. In his short twenty two years of life, Enjolras had done many questionable things which might have earned him the attribute of being "terrible". Yet, he had never willingly killed someone. By accident, maybe… In the confusion of the barricades it was sometimes hard to choose where to shoot your enemies. But whenever he could make a conscious decision, he had chosen to incapacitate rather than kill. He valued life. Especially the life of a child. Especially the life of a defenceless infant whose only fault had been that of being born within the wrong social class. Somehow, Enjolras was reluctant to break this particular honourable streak and condemn Francois to death.

Of course, keeping the infant was impractical and inconvenient. It also put into question their reputations as most people would have the same misguided idea that Courfeyrac had had. But endangering human life over such trivialities seemed too cruel. They would not keep the child forever, but they would keep him until they could find him a good home where he would get a fair chance at leading a proper life.

"We will also need a wet nurse" Enjolras declared, his tone having a certain authoritative quality to it.

"Enjolras, I understand that you…" Combeferre started but whatever protests he might have had died on his lips when his friend turned his blue, steady gaze upon him.

"We will need a wet nurse" he reiterated and turned his eyes from his second in command to his third "Do you think you could help with that, Courfeyrac?"

"Of course. I will immediately go ask Grantaire" the dandy replied in all seriousness, the only indication that he knew the impact his words would have being the slightly mischievous glint in his green eyes.

Grantaire was a name which was taboo around Enjolras. It wasn't that the young leader hated the other man per see. It was more that the other man seemed to do everything in his power to ruffle Enjolras' proverbial feathers. From the moniker "Apollo" to long-winded, drunken speeches about everything and nothing, Grantaire had apparently made his life's mission to annoy Enjolras. At least, that was what the younger man unequivocally believed. As such, when the drunkard did not inflict his presence on the blond man, there was an unspoken rule among Les Amis that Grantaire's name was not to be mentioned in his company.

"Grantaire? And pray how would he be able to help you find a wet-nurse?" Enjolras replied, striving to keep his voice as even and indifferent as possible.

"He does live in one of the least wealthy parts of town, you know? A lot of women living there would be ready to feed a child in exchange for some _sous. _ Of course we could also ask Marius who lives in that wretched place… The name eludes me right now…" Courfeyrac explained as best as he could.

"The Gorbeau house" Combeferre supplied helpfully.

"Indeed. But this is Marius we are discussing. We probably would have to first explain to the poor innocent soul what a wet-nurse is before asking him to find one. And of course, we could ask one of our mistresses, but I was under the distinct impression that you wanted the affair to be as discrete as possible and we would naturally be unable to prevent any rumours being spread in the future by a scorned woman or two…" Courfeyrac finished pleading his case and felt, for the first time in six years of higher education, that he might not be so entirely unsuited for the profession of lawyer.

"So Grantaire it is" Enjolras said levelly, his voice having a slightly similar inflection to that of a convict walking to the gallows.

"I will go let him know" Courfeyrac offered a bright smile that Enjolras suddenly itched to remove " I am certain he will be thrilled to know that he can be of aid to his Apollo" he mocked as he walked towards the door.

"Courfeyrac?" he called after his friend who promptly turned at the sound of his name "As you are delegating the matter of the wet-nurse to Grantaire, would you be so kind as to take care of the funeral arrangements?"

For a second, Courfeyrac wanted to protest, arranging funerals not exactly being his favourite activity, but as he looked at Enjolras' dangerously glinting blue eyes, he could not help but feel that the only thing preventing his friend from happily strangling him was the child in his arms. Having at least a modicum of self-preservation, he nodded complacently.

* * *

Only when he was outside in the bitter Parisian weather, did Courfeyrac realize that he had yet to beg the notes he needed off Enjolras. Considering that he had practically made the man indebted to Grantaire, of all people, he could say that his chances of ever getting those notes were equal to almost zero. Groaning loudly, lamenting this turn of events and proclaiming that fate was indeed unjust, he made his way towards the only funeral house he knew.

* * *

**A/N:** I still hope you have enjoyed my attempt at humor while trying to keep the characters from being ooc (I do hope I succeeded!). Please **review** and let me know what you think. Any type of constructive criticism is more than appreciated.(It only motivates me to write faster)


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